


martin blackwood vs scottish wildlife

by writevale



Series: and here you are making gold out of it [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Complete, Cottage boyfriends, Domesticity, Good Cows, Jon is cheeky in this one, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mention of Martin's Mother, Poetry, luckily jon is there to make it better, one southerner is unprepared for the actuality of his love for animals, post 159, pre 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: round one: martin vs midgesround two: martin vs pine martenround three: martin vs red deerround four: surely nothing can go wrong with a good cow?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: and here you are making gold out of it [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657546
Comments: 67
Kudos: 347





	1. midges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today we ignore our feelings about the s5 trailer and pretend everything is still okay
> 
> in case you haven't encountered a swarm of midges before ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Nh0mGZ45WU))

'It's fine!' Martin insists. Jon can just about see the curve of his smile as the taller man bends over to slip on his boots. He straightens up, face a little red and leans in for a peck. 'You shouldn't be going outside anyway.'

'I can help bring the washing in.' Jon grumbles but, as always, relents.

'It's fine.' Martin repeats, reaching out to twist the key in the lock. There's that smile again, even brighter than the rare Scottish sunset they're being treated to. Martin leans in again and Jon twists his face to catch the proffered kiss right on the lips. Martin's shirt is soft and thick between his fingers and he lets go of it reluctantly. 'I'll only be a minute, you can watch from the window if you really feel like you're missing out.'

Jon affects a put-upon sigh as Martin slips out of the door but he does as suggested, padding back through the kitchen and living room to one of the deep set windows that overlooks the rolling green. His gaze travels down, catching on the bumps of heather, to the gravelled slash of the road and beyond, to where the surprise sunset lays a dazzling apricot onto the rippling surface of the loch.

Martin's makeshift washing line hangs between a fencepost and the tall pine to the left of Jon's view. The clothes that hang from it - a collection of shirts and socks, Martin's knitwear mixed with Jon's pants - sway limply in the last gasp of the day's breeze. Jon watches how the golden light shimmers on the buttons and catches on the small swarms of insects that hover in the air, trying to make the most of the last of the sunlight. The dying light does something incredible to Martin's hair, Jon observes with parted lips, turning the rich auburn into a head of flames. He's -

He's just beautiful.

Jon watches him push his glasses up delicately as he approaches the washing line. Martin glances back at the cottage but his eyes don't quite land on Jon, lost behind the reflection of the surrounding view. He reaches out his large, pale hands to check for any persistent dampness and, seeming satisfied, starts to collect in the washing. Jon spots the pair of his boxers that, peg-free, had flown off the line and is seconds away from opening the window to shout out when he sees the same realisation dawn on Martin's face. As he leans down to grab them, he walks straight through a shimmering cloud of flies.

From his place of safety, Jon watches with a slightly guilty smirk as Martin is immediately set upon by the midges, slapping at all available areas of skin with his free hand. Arms, face, ankles, the back of his neck.

'Oh,' Jon covers his laugh with a hand, 'Oh dear.' He watches Martin set about grabbing the washing on double time. His mouth is forming around expletives that he certainly didn't learn from his mother. Jon can hear the echoes of them through the single pane of glass.

He meets Martin at the door and catches the half-thrown pile of clothes as Martin slams the door shut. Locks it.

'Midges are notoriously bad at picking locks.' Jon notes solemnly. He absolutely fails at not smirking at his own joke. Martin turns around with a furrowed brow. Small, flat red bumps have already started to bloom across his arms and face. Martin follows his gaze to the cluster on his forearms and curses.

'Don't you start.' He warns as Jon ducks into the bedroom to deposit the clothes on their bed. 'Bloody evil, blood sucking, evil bastards.' Jon hears him mutter his way into the bathroom. 'Oh my - Jon! Have you seen my face?!'

'Yes!' Jon calls, grabbing two of Martin's socks from the pile and folding them together. 'It's lovely.'

'Oh - Just! _Shush_.'

***  


It's not that Martin doesn't usually distract him from the radio. Martin provides a wonderful distraction from the nightly drone every time. However, instead of shy glances and a peppering of soft kisses, tonight, Jon is being treated to the intermittent scratching sound of Martin forgetting his vow not to itch his bites. The situation is made even worse by its almost regularity. Jon could guess exactly when Martin is going to scratch again, even as the man himself chews on his pen, lost in trying to locate the next word for his poem.

For example: _Now._

'Martin.' Jon's voice is a growled warning. Martin jumps and glances guilty at the red lines up and down his arms.

'It's so itchy.' His bottom lip pushes into a tiny pout. Jon feels himself soften without any mental permission. It's a bizarre sensation and not one he's used to.

'I know.' He reaches out for Martin's arm, examines the smattering of bites ruining the abstract expressionism of his freckles. There's a few spots where it's clear the same bug has had a second helping. Maybe it's his moment of anger at the _gall_ of these tiny bastards, but Jon's control slips and he has a moment where some brand-knew _Knowledge_ pops straight into his mind. 'Hm.' He murmurs as he turns Martin's arm over to stroke the outrageously smooth skin of his wrist. 'I think I know what will help. However, I suspect you won't like it.'

***

'Ah! _Ah!_ ' Martin is a whirlwind of flying hands and feet as he tries to push Jon away. 'Mercy! Mercy! _Jon_ , I said-!'

'Alright!' Jon sits back on his heels with a dry laugh. Their shoulders heave in unison as they catch their breath. Martin adjusts his glasses even though he looks unfairly adorable with them knocked a little skew-whiff.

'You're enjoying this.' He accuses with narrowed eyes. Jon laughs and leans over to drop his brandished teaspoon in the mug of boiled water with a clink. 'You _are_! Honestly, Jon, sometimes you are really awful to me.'

'Oh, definitely.' He flashes a smile in response to Martin's breathless sulk, 'I'm a real _monster_.' Jon supposes he deserves the sock-clad foot against his ribcage. 'It'll help.' He promises.

'I don't get how.' Martin sniffs, 'I get loads of bites and then you come at me with a burning hot teaspoon. Wonderful.' Jon can't help but chuckle at Martin's put-on strop. His eyes glitter behind his glasses as Jon wraps his fingers around the foot that his resting against his chest. 'Marvellous.' Jon lifts the leg to press a kiss to the relatively bite-free section of Martin's ankle. 'Just bloody brilliant, this is.'

'Poor Martin.'

'Uh, _yes_ poor Martin!' He exclaims but doesn't actually look that annoyed as Jon gently rests his leg down and strokes his hand up the length of his calf. 'I'm not going out in the evenings ever again.'

'We'll get you a mosquito net for your head.' Jon smirks at the mental image. Martin huffs and folds his arms, displaying his bites like a hundred little stop signs. 'Still itchy?' Jon asks, reaching for the successfully heated teaspoon without waiting for an answer. He squeezes Martin's calf in response to his sigh.

'You owe me for this.'

'I owe you for helping you. Interesting.'

Martin opens his mouth. Closes it again. 'You owe me for how much you're enjoying it, you awful sadist.'

Jon leans forward to kiss his laugh into Martin's forehead. ‘Oh, alright then.' Martin's fingers are firm against his jaw as he's pulled down into a proper kiss.

'Ugh. Just get it over - Ah, _fuck!_ Jon!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trust me, get a hot teaspoon on those bites and denature those nasty, itchy enzymes!! 
> 
> next round: martin vs pine martin


	2. pine marten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pine martens](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/science/2016/05/20/pine_marten_trans%2B%2Beo_i_u9APj8RuoebjoAHt0k9u7HhRJvuo-ZLenGRumA.jpg): notoriously elusive and, frankly, adorable. remind anyone else of a season 4 martin blackwood?
> 
> (also, [look at this little bastard lmao](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45FoC7PqyJc). we love to see it)

The sofa cushions let out a quiet _whoomph_ of air as Martin lands down on them heavily. He's brought in the smell of the night with him, a cool scent. Pine and salt. His hand is icy as Jon reaches out to take it and immediately grabs both of them between his own, trying to warm them up.

'Okay, new tactic.' Martin grins.

'I'm listening.'

'So, we know it comes at night. Eats the food. Scarpers. Right?'

'Yes.'

'So, I'm thinking, Daisy has a night-vision scope in amongst all those guns we found under the floorboard.'

'Ye-es?' Jon sounds less enthused by the second. He brings their hands to his mouth to blow some warm air over them. Martin smiles gratefully.

'So, I'm going to get the scope and set up camp by the window and watch!' He looks so happy with himself, Jon almost feels guilty for pulling a face. 'What?'

'All night?'

'Well, hopefully not, but yeah. Maybe.'

'You're going to sit on your own in the dark by the window all night to catch sight of some weasel?'

'It's a pine marten, Jon!' Martin's eyes sparkle when he's excited. Jon's not entirely surprised that he's only learnt that since moving here with him. There was astoundingly little to be excited about at the Institute. 'Well, I hope so, anyway. It could be ah - uh - a wildcat!'

'Oooh.' Jon gasps, sarcastically flat. Martin pulls his hands away and folds his arms neatly. Jon suspects he might not like what's coming next. His boyfriend reminds him of a school teacher when he does this. And Jon's ready for a detention.

'Anyway, I wouldn't have to sit up on my own if my wonderful, perfect and handsome boyfriend stayed up with me for a few hours until we've seen it.'

'You don't have a wonderful, perfect and handsome boyfriend.' Jon grumbles, already feeling his resolve weaken.

'Ha ha ha.' Martin unfolds himself slowly, crowding Jon back against the arm of the sofa until their faces are inches apart. 'So,' Sometimes, Martin uses kisses as punctuation. It's quite an effective linguistic device, Jon has found. 'Will you stay up with me, please?'

'Ugh.' The crunchy groan of acquiescence is almost drowned out by Martin's whoop of delight. 'Fine.' He growls, 'But I'll have another kiss. Thanks.' His boyfriend, genuinely wonderful and handsome, seems only too happy to oblige.

***

'Shh.' Martin's hush is louder than Jon's initial complaint.

'Martin,' He whispers again, 'I'm losing feeling in my toes.'

'Ugh, I told you we should have sat the other way. Here.' They reshuffle in the armchair so that Jon is half across Martin's lap, half perched on the wide arm rest. Martin lifts the delicately obtained scope to his eye and scans the patch of grass by the pine tree where he had left the bait.

'What now?'

'We wait.'

Jon lets out a slow, bored exhale. He's more than happy to indulge Martin's interest in the local fauna . . . it just doesn't particularly tick a box for him personally. That being said, it's much nicer to be sitting here, curled up against Martin's warm chest than lying under the sheets alone.

'I didn't know you liked animals so much.' He comments lightly. He can just discern a piece of his own long hair on Martin's jumper and he pulls it away.

'Oh, yes.' Martin replies distractedly, 'Pretty much all of them.' There's a safety in telling stories to someone in the dark and Jon suspects he might get one if he manages to stay quiet and let the night do the compelling. 'I couldn't have any pets when I was a kid, obviously, we didn't - Mum was too sick. So, um, I'd just kind of pretend that some of the animals I'd see regularly were my pets. Like, there was this one pigeon, I called him Derrick, he used to nest on next door's roof. And, Delia, the woodlouse who lived in the bathroom.' He pauses, lowers the scope a little to try and get a read on Jon's expression, 'Sorry, it sounds really stupid when I say it now.' Jon leans in to rest his nose against Martin's temple.

'Not at all.' He breathes in the smell of Martin's shampoo, 'Why those names?'

'Hah. I have no idea where Derrick came from but we had a Delia Smith cookbook. I was obsessed with it - I think I thought that, in an entire cookbook, there must be something that Mum would like.'

'Was there?' Asking anything about Martin's mother still feels like taking a step out onto a lake that might not be fully iced over.

Martin snorts, 'Course not.' Jon doesn't know what to say to that but Martin's free hand finds his in the dark and he guesses that all he has to do is squeeze back. 'Then, one of the social workers brought me an animal encyclopaedia. I think they literally just picked it up from a charity shop on the way to the first visit to win me over but it became my favourite thing in the world.' He sighs a shaky sigh. Jon blinks.

'You thought you had lost it, but it's at the back of the cabinet at your mother's house. The one that you hadn't got round to sorting yet - _Oh_ , Martin. Sorry!'

'No,' He sounds distant, tired almost, 'No, it's okay. Thank you.' Martin twists his head and their noses bump against one another. Jon holds his breath in case any other unwanted details spill out. 'I'll show you it one day, see if we can't find you some enthusiasm for the animal kingdom.'

'Alright.' Jon breathes as their lips brush together in the dark.

***

Jon knew this would happen.

He reaches down to gently pluck the scope from Martin's loose fingers before it clatters to the floor. The damn thing probably cost more than Jon and Martin's current possessions combined. Martin's head rolls sideways, coming to rest on Jon's shoulder. His deep, easy breaths slip down the collar of Jon's T-shirt and run over his chest.

Jon takes a second to admire the shape of him in the gloom. Relaxed shoulders, hands limp but open, as though his fingertips still long for the weight of the scope. Now, Jon can stare without being accused of a lack of interest in their vigil, and he grabs the opportunity with both hands. Martin's skin is a ghostly pearl against the ink-blue fabric of the chair cushion, as though he is the only luminescent thing on this hillside. Like the moon, perhaps. Jon huffs quietly, trying not to shake Martin's resting head. _There's a reason Martin is the poet._

More out of duty than interest, Jon raises the scope to his eye and trains it on the spot Martin had insisted he'd left the scraps of ham as bait. Just in time to see the low, lithe form of some kind of massive weasel scamper away into the brush.

'Bastard.' Jon mutters.

***  


Martin holds up the empty plate to him with an expression of disgruntled disbelief.

'Scraped bloody clean.' He spits as he toes off his boots and sets about cleaning the night-chilled porcelain in the sink. Jon sneaks up behind him and rests back against the countertop. He hadn't told Martin what he'd seen in the early hours of last night: the slinking creature that had made off with their ham. Better to let him have the excitement with the added thrill of thinking he's the first to see it.

'We can try again.' Jon offers. Martin's head whips over his shoulder to meet his eyes. Testing for a trick. His cheeks bunch up as he smiles wide.

'Really?'

'Yeah.'

'Okay,' Martin dries his hands on the tea towel and then claps them together, 'New plan.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading!  
> round three: martin vs red deer


	3. red deer

There's an excellent rock around here somewhere. Martin had spotted it yesterday and wished fervently that he'd been carrying his notebook. He is better prepared today. He tugs his leg free from the clinging grasp of the heather and marches upwards, the cool breeze a balm against the sweat on his brow. The clouds he had seen in the distance as he set off on his walk have crept closer, now hovering over the white speck of their ramshackle cottage in the distance. He should get at least an hour up here before the rain hits. If only he could find this bloody rock.

His movement through the thick grass startles an anxious flap of wings as a pheasant shoots out a few metres ahead, Martin pauses to watch its graceful arc up into the sky and when his green eyes pan back to the hillside he sees it. _The rock!_ He makes short work of the remaining distance and heaves himself up, feet slipping on the damp moss covering it.

The view from his new perch is just as good as he hoped it would be and he pokes his fingers into that familiar clench in his chest that wants so desperately for Jon to be able to be with him. To take all this in and see that there are still beautiful places out there. Despite everything. From where he sits he can see much more of the Loch than the view from the cottage permits. It stretches right out to the sea, grey and glimmering and Martin's heart hammers in his chest to look at the majesty of it.

His wind-kissed hands are clumsy with cold as he reaches into his backpack to pull out his notebook. Overhead, a buzzard wheels in a lazy circle, a black streak against the cloud-spotted sky. He breathes in slowly, feeling the chill air sink right to the bottom of his chest. It's invigorating. (He wishes Jon could feel that too).

The poetry comes out a little easier out here. He knows that Jon has a genuine interest in his writing, that his little jibes are nothing more than a mutual understanding that Martin won't accept much more praise than politeness dictates. He knows that Jon sometimes sees how the stanza is going to pan out before Martin even does. There's a little less pressure writing out here. If he thinks hard about it, he can still feel the gentle tickle of Jon's eyes, always watching, but, up here, it feels more like guardianship and less like the man is reading over his shoulder.

He's got down half of the piece he'd been mentally thrashing out on his way up the hill when he hears it: a deep bellowing roar that echoes along the hillside, startling a pair of delicate brown birds from their roost in the grass.

'What the - ?'

It comes again, a croaky groan that shakes through the heath. Martin stands up on the rock for a better view, the pages of his notebook flapping in the wind. His mind races as he tries to imagine what sort of animal might make a sound like that. He prays to whatever might be listening that it is an animal and not . . . Something like Daisy. A memory, distant and hazy with disuse, surfaces like a bubble from the bottom of a lake. _Do deer shout like that?_

As the sound rings out again, Martin spins around to better locate it and spots a pair of antlers poking up from behind a particularly florid gorse bush. He hold his breath in anticipation even as the rest of his body sinks a little with relief. _Not a werewolf, then._ The deer treads closer, magnificent antlers carving a path towards him. Their eyes meet and Martin is surprised to find an anger there, something burning and aggressive. He grips his notebook tighter and swallows.

'Ah, hello.' He tries in the most soothing tone he can manage. 'Hey, there. Steady on, big guy.' The deer stomps closer, making little snorting noises that don't seem particularly friendly. 'I like your antlers-' Is the last thing that Martin squeaks out before the buck charges at him. He dives off the rock, almost twisting his ankle as he lands badly on the grass below. He glances over his shoulder to see that the deer is hot on his heels, the rush of blood in his head drowning out the muffled crunch of hooves in the grass. It bellows again and the sound is near deafening from the narrowing distance between them. Martin runs harder. His lungs burn and he resents the day he ever took a desk job. He could have been a dog walker. Or a cleaner. Or something that didn't leave him glued to a seat, trying to catch a glimpse of his hot boss through the gap in the door to his office. 

He briefly wonders what will happen if the deer catches him. If Jon would come looking. What he'd find.

He just needs to make it off the hill.

***

'Martin?' Jon's voice rings out from the living room as Martin collapses back against the closed door. He tries to rasp out a greeting but can't steady his breathing enough to form more than a wheeze. 'Martin?' A head appears around the door, thick eyebrows knitted into a frown. 'Good God, are you okay?' Jon hurries over to him, hands reaching out to take him by the shoulders. Martin can feel those eyes roaming over him, poking at the bruised bits, checking he's okay. He reaches up to wrap a sweaty hand around Jon's wrist, a silent plea for him to stop.

'I'm -' He pants, 'Fine.' His mouth is dry, saliva thick and almost hard to swallow. One of Jon's warm hands slides up to the back of his neck and pulls him closer to kiss his forehead. Martin almost collapses into him with relief. 'Had to run.'

'Run from what? Martin? Are we safe?'

'Yeah - yes.' He wishes Jon would kiss him again. He'd felt safer then. 'Just an angry deer.'

'An angry deer?' Jon's lips twitch and Martin frowns, his boyfriend clearly doesn't appreciate just how angry the deer was. 'You got chased home by Bambi?'

' _Jon_!' Martin exclaims, gesturing at the mud splattered up his shins, the twigs in his hair from where he'd taken a tumble and decided it was faster to roll than scramble back up to his feet. 'Do I _look_ like I was chased home by Bambi?'

***

He mentally finishes the poem in the shower where the hot water washes the tremble out of his hands. Jon has kindly laid his notebook out on the counter for him, next to a steaming mug of tea and he collects both with a small smile.

'Cheers.' He says as he plops down on the sofa next to Jon. His Archivist looks up from a sheaf of papers, glancing at Martin's notebook first, then his face.

'Welcome.' He replies, apparently turning his attention back to the old statement in front of him. Martin steals the pen tucked into the back of his hair and isn't sorry at all as it causes the silver-streaked strands to cascade out of his messy bun.

He flips open his notebook. Sighs.

_He seeks not to slip into his own shadow_

_To exist under the gaze of the rising sun_

And then, underneath, in Jon's elegant but almost illegible handwriting:

_Oh shit, a deer_

_I think I had better run_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one kudos = one prayer for jon after fucking up martin's poem  
> thanks for reading! 
> 
> next round: martin vs highland cattle


	4. highland cattle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little note: in my headcanon, when Jon says he's been trying not to See too much he means using his Beholding powers as well as seeing something that might betray their location to Elias. hence the blindfold. there's also the small concern that he might go running off after a villager to find out exactly what was in her sock drawer in 1973 and how it led to all those mysterious deaths. 
> 
> enjoy!

Martin digs his thumbs into Jon's shoulders, feels the tension beneath the layers of his jumper and coat.

'Alright?' He asks, voice a whisper above the wind. Jon nods and Martin lifts a hand to the knot at the back of the makeshift blindfold over his eyes. 'There's no-one about.' He confirms, 'If you feel nervous or uncomfortable-'

'It's okay, Martin.'

'Okay!' He chirps, falsetto pitch betraying his own apprehension. He scans the field, mouth loosening into a smile at the sight of the patiently waiting cow. There isn't another human in sight. They'll be fine. 'Okay.' He repeats and gently undoes the tight knot in the scarf around Jon's eyes.

'Ah!' The fabric falls free and Jon gasps as though pained. Martin jumps, immediately twisting round to get a look at Jon's face. He doesn't know what he expects. Blood dripping from empty sockets? Flames being shot from those warm hazel irises? Relief floats up from his stomach and catches in his throat as he's greeted only by the sight of Jon rubbing his eyes, a wide grin hidden behind his moving hands. 'I've forgotten how bright it can be outside.' Martin nudges him with his shoulder.

'You scared me.' He wraps the scarf around Jon's neck and lets his thumb catch on the angle of the man's jaw as he tucks it into the collar of his coat. Jon's made of sturdier stuff than he used to be, but the Highland wind is particularly insidious and Martin doesn't want him getting cold.

'Sorry.' Jon murmurs. 'So,' Martin follows his gaze and sees him take in the impressive form of his favourite good cow. 'This is her.'

'Isn't she lovely?'

'She's . . . Huge.'

'Alright, Mr Stringbean. We don't hold that against her.'

'No,' The backs of their hands brush together, intimate and distracting. 'Obviously, I mean, her horns!'

Martin laughs. He'd felt the same nervous awe when he first saw the cows. This particular lady is his favourite because one of her horns curves upwards towards the sky while the other twists towards the floor. He can appreciate the feeling of being a little lopsided. Off-kilter. Also, her coarse, caramel brown hair is particularly soft.

'She's nice, I promise.' Jon glances at him, unconvinced.

'I don't have your affinity for animals, Martin. Remember that.'

Martin laughs, 'Honestly.' He wraps an arm around Jon's back, hand coming to squeeze at his waist. When he ducks his head to whisper in Jon's ear the man shivers a little. Martin hopes it's not just because of the wind. 'Feeling brave enough to come pet her?' Jon shuffles in his grip.

'Why don't - ah - why don’t you show me how it's done?'

'Okay. Sure.' He chuckles and presses a kiss into the wiry hair at Jon's temple before letting him go. He turns his attention to the harmlessly chewing cow ahead of them. 'Morning!' He calls, watching as the cow turns her head to stare at him through the gaps in her heavy fringe. Which is probably where he makes his mistake.

Martin takes a step forwards and feels the spongy grass underfoot change into something thick and slippery that gives way beneath his shoe. He gets a final glance at the cow before he's slipping backwards, the muted grey of the sky whirling in with the green and yellow of the grass. His left hand lands in the dewy thatch. His right -

'Oh my God.' He moans. He hears Jon echo the sentiment from a few metres back, only his voice is ripe with barely restrained laughter. His entire right hand has sunk deep into a cowpat. It’s tepid and sticky. It smells rank. 'Ugh.' Jon's laughter almost covers the wet squelching sound it makes as he pulls free. 'Ugh ugh.' He tries to wipe most of it off on the grass but there's too much. For the first time since moving the Scotland, he actively resents the cows. 'Was this you?!' He half-shrieks at the docile ruminant in front of him. She lowers her head to the floor to chew up some more grass. Martin imagines the movement is akin to a shrug.

He glances over his shoulder to find that Jon's laughter has forced him into a squat and his entire body shakes with the force of it. The Archivist composes himself just enough to meet Martin's eyes but then his gaze slips to his hand and he loses it again, head falling backwards to howl his laughter up at the sky.

'I'm glad you find it funny!' Martin shouts which earns him a fresh peal of hooting laughter. He shuffles himself off the ground and takes in the damage. One of his boots has a thick coating of manure and his trouser legs, too, are splattered with the stuff. The familiar heat in his cheeks is stronger than the whip of the wind as Martin sinks into his embarrassment. He'd really wanted to show-off a little this morning. To try and impress his nature-ambivalent boyfriend with his new cattle-whispering skills. _Typical, really_.

Jon manages to scrape himself up and stagger over to Martin. His face is flushed with colour, grin ginormous even as he keeps a cautious eye on the cow.

'I'd help you up, but . . .' Jon purses his lips around a giggle, 'You're - ahem - a little -'

'Covered in shit?' Martin finishes, looking up at the creases beside Jon's tired eyes. This startles another round of laughter out of the man. Martin takes in the shake in his shoulders, the way the wind catches in the loose strands of his long hair. Laughing like this takes years off him and Martin wants to catch the memory with both hands and hold it tight to his chest.

'Hah, yes. A little.'

Martin stares up at him and the embarrassment he had felt dies down in the presence of this warmth in his belly at the sight of Jon so happy. That, after all, is what he really wanted.

He pushes himself off the floor and Jon jumps back instinctively. The nervous twitch gives Martin an excellent idea.

'Martin?' Jon's smile morphs into a slight frown as his boyfriend creeps closer. 'Nuh-ah! What are you doing?'

'Come here, I just need to wipe my hands.'

‘Martin - no!’

The cow, fully aware of her own majesty, chews slowly on the cud and watches as the two humans go tearing off down the hillside, shouts of laughter ringing out behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it for this little fic! I hope you've had as much fun reading it as I have writing them! thanks so much to everyone who has left kudos and commented, it's so lovely to hear that I've made people laugh or cheered them up through these mad times.
> 
> if you liked this story, there's now a fair selection of safecottage! jonmartin stories in the rest of this series that you might also enjoy. keep your eyes peeled as I'm working on another to be posted soon!


End file.
